


A New Spring

by likehandlingroses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Feels, M/M, Quidditch World Cup 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likehandlingroses/pseuds/likehandlingroses
Summary: The 2014 Quidditch World Cup is looming, and Viktor Krum has come out of retirement to fulfill his life's ambition: to win a World Cup. The entire world is buzzing at the news--including Rita Skeeter, who is convinced Viktor has a love affair that he's hiding from the public eye. Astonishingly, she's correct.However, Viktor still has one trick up his sleeve: a lover that no one--least of all Rita--would suspect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on Rowling's Pottermore notes on the 2014 Quidditch World Cup. I did not make up the idea that Viktor came out of retirement to win a World Cup, nor did I invent many of the details in the game play. I just thought the concept was the perfect fodder for a love story, and I thank Rowling for--once again--unintentionally sponsoring my gay antics!!

**“Rita's Roundup: Krum Seeking…? TBD”—** _ (cont’d from Page 3) _

Bulgaria winning the World Cup would be a long shot, even with a younger, more agile Seeker. But perhaps Krum believes this is his _ only _ shot at curing a decades-long case of arrested development. 

Though the international star is quickly approaching forty, he has never been married and has no children. Neither myself nor my colleagues have ever uncovered the sordid details of a broken engagement or a faithless lover. His schoolyard tryst with the Boy-Who-Lived’s best friend, Hermione Granger, was promising, but short lived. And though I will always maintain the two hold a flame for each other, after twenty years the well has gone dry.

Krum plays coy in interviews, shrugging off this peculiarity as some sort of misfortune that plagues only him. Does he think, I wonder, that we don’t notice every one of his teammates and rivals making off like bandits in the romance department? The image his publicity team wishes to present—that of a hapless sensation who is chronically incapable of finding a woman to give his heart to—bends credulity to its breaking point. 

Has Krum really remained single all these years? Or he is simply hiding any love affairs from the public’s knowledge? Both have been known to happen, though typically the latter results in some sort of an open secret. But then, Krum has always been elusive, even decidedly grumpy, with the press (personally, I’ve kept a wide berth ever since Krum cornered me over an innocent comment about his niece’s impending unibrow...really, it’s just a matter of a simple cosmetic spell…). 

In any case, if Krum is hiding something, moving out of retirement is sure to bring it to light. And as my readers know, people are always hiding _ something _. 

I’d watch out for the burly, bombastic Bulgarian Beater Dimitar Draganov: a fair Beater who’s notoriously easy on the eyes. Despite Draganov’s subdued performance during the qualifying round, Krum couldn’t stop (uncharacteristically) gushing about Draganov to anyone who would listen...I wonder if his teammates noticed…

Until next week!

\--Rita

* * *

On his ninth birthday, Viktor’s father had taken him out to lunch, then to his favorite sweet shop. Viktor still remembers realizing he was tall enough to properly see over the counter and feeling quite proud over the accomplishment. He’d thrown back fistfuls of sweets, chattering away to his father with abandon, fueled by the sheer excitement of being _ more _than he’d been the day before. 

Then his father had taken him to fly for The Scouts. Viktor doesn’t remember their names, though he remembers how tall they all seemed, how imposing. How out-of-place they made Viktor feel as they scrutinized his every loop and dive. It was rather like have someone watch him breathe. 

They spoke to his father in hushed tones, eyeing him furtively, while Viktor dug a circle in the half dead lawn with his toes. By the end of the conversation, his father was smiling. 

“You have a gift.” 

They never went back to the sweet shop. Oh, his parents brought home just as many treats and trinkets as they always had. Viktor has never been anything but loved by his family. 

But they’d stopped going places, after that day with the sweets and The Scouts. Or _ he’d _ stopped going places, anyway. There wasn’t time for outings. 

He had a gift to be getting on with. 

Twelve years ago, Viktor had gone back to the sweet shop, having officially retired from Quidditch. He towered over the counter, feeling entirely out of place. His favorite sweets only made him feel restless, and—later in the afternoon—quite ill. 

So he’d gone out to the field next to his sister Emiliya’s house, and he’d flown as high and as fast as he could...and there was the gift, warming him up to his center in a way nothing else ever has. 

He couldn’t bear it; he stopped flying for years because of the way the gift ached inside of him, the way it called for him to do something—anything—worthy of his talents. And what could he say to that splendid, terrifying, utterly sublime force inside of him?

_ “I’m sorry. I tried, with everything I had, with everything I am. It wasn’t enough. I’ve given up. Your time is over.” _

He couldn’t do it, in the end.

The gift has won, has pulled him out of retirement and into the skies. Bulgaria will see Viktor Krum as their Seeker at the 2014 Quidditch World Cup.

Whether the world will see Bulgaria win is another question entirely, and one Viktor knows won’t be answered until the Cup. 

Still, he can’t ignore the worrying stir in the pit of his stomach every time he looks at Alexei Levski—his former teammate who now acts as the Bulgarian manager—and sees the crease in his brow. Viktor knows as well as Levski does that something’s not quite connecting in their play: each person has improved their game tremendously since qualifiers, but the spark between them that wins tournaments is still missing. 

“We can make the quarterfinals with this level of performance. Maybe the semis,” Levski tells them after practice one day. “But I know we have a team who can make— win—the final. So we need to find a way to make sure _ that _ team is on the field every day.” 

It doesn’t do anyone any good to panic—Viktor has known that since he was small. It’s the first thing they teach you when they want you to be great. Winners don’t panic. Not when the score is 30-300, not when the wind picks up and you can’t find your balance. Not when the Snitch disappears and you hear the crowd yelling from the other end of the stadium. And you certainly don’t panic months before a World Cup that you’ve already qualified for. 

Still, Viktor allows himself the luxury of being nervous from time to time about their chances. Just for a few minutes under the hot water, before he dutifully leaves the shower and joins Emiliya downstairs for an afternoon cup of coffee. 

He’s lived with Emiliya since he retired in 2002, mostly to help with her children, Damyan and Aleksandra. She, in turn, had kept him from moping about since his retirement.

As a child, Viktor had hardly known his own sister. In the summers, he was training, and at school, she kept her distance. 

“You cause all this trouble, and for what?” she’d snipe at him, on the rare occasions that she approached him after he’d fought with someone for flashing the Mark of Grindelwald in the halls. “Do you always need the attention?” 

It wasn’t until their parents fell ill that Viktor and Emiliya had truly looked at each other. Almost immediately, they recognized their shared bouts of melancholy, their constitutional drifts towards isolation. In the absence of their parents, they have taken up the habit of circling each other to make sure one of them doesn’t fall too far. 

“They say you are flying as well as you did before you retired,” Emiliya says before sipping her coffee. She winces as it touches her tongue. She’s never learned to wait until it cools. 

“It isn’t enough to fly as well as before. I need to fly better.”

“You will,” she says. 

Viktor grunts, stirring his mug around and watching the steam rise. He sets it down, his eyes falling on a piece of parchment off to the side of the table.

“That’s Damyan’s,” Emiliya says as he picks it up. “A summer project for school.” 

The essay, entitled “The Roots of Magic in Humankind,” makes Viktor’s hand shake as he reads it. 

“I told you not to send him to Durmstrang,” he mutters, tossing the parchment back onto the table. He ought to rip it up. He would, if he were Damyan’s father. But the man is alive and well—though only physically present at Christmas and the occasional birthday—and Viktor has held his tongue about a great many things over the years out of a begrudging deference to his existence.

“What?” Emiliya asks without much interest. 

“You read it?” Viktor shakes his head. “‘Pureblood babies float in water’...they’ll ruin him.”

At this, Emiliya slams down her cup, the coffee sloshing onto the counter. 

“Viktor! You know what I teach them at home...they know how the world can be. All of it: not just Durmstrang.” 

Her face flushed, she turns to the countertop, pulling out her wand. 

“Where was You-Know-Who from?” she asks, sponging up the spilled coffee. “Your precious Britain.” 

Viktor doesn’t reply. She’s fishing for a fight, now, as little sisters do. He’s learned not to take the bait. 

“That owl came again today,” Emiliya finally says, nodding her head in the direction of the window, where Viktor spots a tawny owl rustling in the bushes, pestering a cricket. “He’s wanting quite a bit of attention...”

“The owl’s a she,” Viktor says, turning his head away as the owl snatches the cricket up in its beak and swallows it whole. He reaches out for the letter Emiliya has pulled from her pocket. 

“I know that _ she’s _ a she,” Emiliya replies with a smile. “I mean, the man who wrote the letter.”

Viktor rolls his shoulders back at the twinkle in her dark eyes, returning a smile but saying nothing. Emiliya scans his face before returning to her cup of coffee, shaking her head. 

“He has time on his hands…” she remarks. “Is he young?”

Viktor stifles a laugh.

“Well?” Emiliya presses. “You have to tell me something about him before you go running off again. I’m tired of guessing.” 

“He’s quick,” Viktor finally says, tracing the neat handwriting on the envelope before breaking the seal and pulling out the single sheet of parchment. 

There are many words on the page, words he’ll scan while grabbing his bag and saying goodbye to Sashka and Damyan. More words, perhaps, than necessary. Thankfully, Viktor’s eyes are well trained, and they immediately land on the most important point: 

_ Might I see you tonight? _

As he stands, Emiliya sighs, one hand on her hip. “You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“I don’t know yet…” he mutters.

“What do I tell Levski if he comes by wanting to see you?”

Viktor looks up from the letter and grins at her. 

“Tell him to be quicker.”


	2. Chapter 2

Percy notices Harry’s left hand twitching on the arm of Percy’s office chair. 

“Train my staff?” Harry says, an eyebrow raised. 

“To better accommodate the changes and renew efficiency,” Percy replies coolly. “Didn’t you say the new paperwork was slowing them down?”

“I  _ also  _ said we should get rid of some of it.” 

Percy resists closing his eyes in frustration. He doesn’t hold—as many of his colleagues do—that Harry isn’t cut out for a department head position. Harry brings with him practical experience and passion, not to mention an integrity and moral compass the Ministry had been lacking for decades. 

Still, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, and Harry has always been hopelessly disinterested in matters of policy and documentation. 

“My staff hasn’t seen any slow downs with the new regulations, so I really think it’s a matter of coordinating with your—”

“— _ my _ staff doesn’t work at the same pace as yours.” Harry leans forward in his chair. “And this new system doesn’t work for us. It’s that simple.” 

Percy shakes his head, straightening the papers on his desk. 

“It isn’t that simple at all, I’m afraid. This new filing system comes from the recent Wizengamot session. That session outlined new regulations that we  _ all _ have to implement by next fiscal year.”

He looks at Harry, who is staring resolutely at one of the manuals on Percy’s desk. 

“I can’t sign off on Floo surveillance unless you have these items filled out,” Percy continues, gesturing to one of the forms Harry tossed onto his desk fifteen minutes ago. He picks them up, flipping through the pages. “I can’t authorize an Apparition license suspension unless you have this paperwork. And I certainly can’t hand off Portkey records to law enforcement without documented probable cause. If I sign off on something without these documents in order, it’s my head on the chopping block.”

Still no response from Harry, who seems to be biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Now, if you want these papers in another order, if you want them on different colored parchment...dictate away.” Percy sets the papers back down in front of Harry. “But I can’t change what the regulations are.”

Harry sits up straighter, scoffing. 

“You had your teams up there advocating for them to pass those regulations,” he says. “And I told you this would happen if they passed.”

“These are common sense measures, and they work just fine once everyone gets used to them,” Percy says, swelling. As if he hadn’t studied copius comparative systems before moving to support any legislation...

“I don’t have time to get used to them!” Harry exclaims. “This isn’t a hypothetical exercise, Percy! I have criminals—real, dangerous, criminals—running around, and I can’t do a thing about it because these papers don’t have their t’s crossed. It’s inane.” 

“Are you implying that it’s my fault your Auror falsified a place of witness?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “They didn’t falsify anything!”

Percy reaches across the desk and picks up one of the forms, his hands shaking ever so slightly. 

“Here it says the informant saw the suspect cast the enchantment on their porch.” Percy points to a section of the document, holding it so Harry can see what’s been scrawled onto the parchment. To his credit, Harry actually moves to read where Percy has indicated. 

“But down here,” Percy continues. “The documentation suggests that the incident happened once the suspect was inside their house, and the informant only saw sparks coming through the still open door.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s the same thing.”

“No, you see, it isn’t,” Percy says shortly. “And I won’t authorize a Floo shut down until your office at least pretends to be sure of what transpired.”

He’ll never pretend to know more about the war than Harry—of course not. But Harry hadn’t been here, in the Ministry, when the Death Eaters took over. He didn’t see how they manipulated the existing systems, he doesn’t realize—even now—how simple it was to enact atrocities without changing anything about the day-to-day functions of departments. 

A lack of careful, specific documentation is all well and good when trustworthy, honest people are in charge...but there’s no promise of that. And Percy watched too many people put in prison or killed because they couldn’t leave their homes without being tracked. 

It won’t happen again. Not under his watch, not while he’s in charge of anything. 

Perhaps Harry sees the fire in Percy’s eyes, for he leans back in his chair, biting his bottom lip, considering Percy’s statement. 

“Look,” he finally says. “I want to be able to back you up on this when other departments start complaining about these regulations...and they already are—”

“—I read the  _ Prophet  _ too, Harry,” Percy says. Just this morning, he’d been treated to another article about what a failure the new Floo updates have been...and it isn’t a failure, Percy knows this. He’s told his staff this. The system is safer, it’s more accurate...isn’t that worth seconds of people’s time? 

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Harry says, and Percy can hear the surprise in his voice, that intake of breath that has always preceded Harry saying something particularly earnest. “I’m never talking about that rubbish.”

Percy nods, conceding Harry’s denial, and yet Harry still looks deflated. It isn’t in Harry’s nature, to hound the underdog. 

“I can train my staff,” Harry finally says, his tone more even. “And I’m sure it’ll help, like you said. But my Aurors can’t manage this much. They just can’t. Is there anything we can do about that?”

Percy leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed. It’s a good faith question, and Percy comes across those so rarely in public service. He beckons for the stack of papers in front of Harry, reaching for his quill. 

“This bit is redundant…” he says, scanning the papers and making notes in the margins. “And here we could condense...now, I’ll have to cross-check this with Penny because the wording in the law—you ask me—was  _ rather  _ vague, and I don’t want to make a determination without her legal sign-off. But if she gives the go-ahead, this entire subsection can be lopped off. Now this, I think we do need to keep...well, but after all, we have Part C, which covers most of the same criteria…”

He looks up at a wide-eyed Harry. 

“Would you give me until Friday, Harry, and I’ll put together some alternatives?”

“Sure,” Harry says, looking stunned. “That’s...that’s great.”

Percy nods. “And I will still need that testimony corrected. Another witness, perhaps? Or check for a Confundus Charm on the first one.” 

“I’ll tell him,” Harry says, a smile finally crossing his face. “Thanks, Percy.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble…” Percy says, waving his hand dismissively even as a sense of accomplishment fills his chest. He enjoys working with Harry, when it’s all said and done. “I can be a tad scrupulous about these things, you know...”

“—no, no...well, I mean, it’s really a good thing most of the time, I suppose—”

A knock on the half open door silences Harry’s good-natured stammering. Percy’s administrative assistant—Mabel Wingston—pokes her head in. 

“Mr. Weasley? Viktor Krum’s here to see you.”

She blushes when she says it, her lips turning up just at the corners even as she tries her hardest to look quite serious. Mabel is both reliable and clever, but she’s also eighteen years old, and her giddiness at having to carry around important information—be it official or personal—is frequently written on her face. 

“Is he?” Percy says, glancing at the clock. “And it’s five already...right on time. Thank you, Mabel, would you tell him I’ll be out in just a moment?” 

Mabel nods with confidence before hastening out of the room. 

Percy smiles to himself before turning to Harry, who has a perplexed look on his face. Percy’s stomach flutters for a moment, but he pushes on ahead. Who he sees and why isn’t anyone’s business but his own, after all…

“Well, as I’ve said, Harry, I’ll do what I can to have these fixed up for you…” 

But Percy can’t ignore the look of realization that is now crossing Harry’s face. 

“What?” 

Harry looks for a moment as if he’s about to say, “nothing,” and let the matter drop. Instead—speaking so quietly Percy has to lean in to hear—he says: 

“Rita thinks he’s seeing Draganov.”

He shoots Percy a grin, and Percy leans back, his own lips twisting upwards. 

“I thought you didn’t read the  _ Prophet _ ?” 

* * *

There’s something distinctly suspicious about the fact that Percy’s having some of the best sex of his life ten years after having his first child, five years after spotting his first grey hairs, three years after starting to lose them, and one year after divorcing Audrey. Something unnatural, even.The trajectory towards forty isn’t always pleasant, but up until now, there’s been a comforting consistency to the whole affair. 

He hasn’t anticipated this part. This sort of thing happens to people who were so straight laced in their teens and twenties that they’d never had a good shag before their second divorce. The coil snaps, and all that...

But Percy’s never been one to keep the spring in tension. He’s been quite careful on that end, always toeing the line between discretion and repression, for fear of falling into real trouble on either side. 

No one can accuse him of impropriety. What sort of scandal begins after a discussion of Campbell Prewett’s  _ Theses on Fire as a Transportational Element _ ?

“I was spending most of my time taking classes after retiring,” Viktor had explained, apologetically adding that he’d never really pursued a degree. “It was for personal interest; I have always had a fascination with elemental magic, especially as it is relating to physics.” 

And really, what _ else  _ could Percy have done after hearing that?

Still, that doesn’t explain why the spring is still...well, springy. The only explanation Percy can come up with is that people—all of them, some of them, he doesn’t pretend to know—get more than one spring. 

A new spring...that would do it. And why not use the spring, if life has seen fit to gift him a replacement? 

Still, he thinks as Viktor settles into his arms, a new spring still has to prove it can work with all the existing parts. 

“I have children,” he blurts out, and Viktor’s fingertips stop their journey up his arm. He lifts his head so his eyes can meet Percy’s, a smile playing on his lips. 

“I know; I have met them,” he says. 

Viktor is only half-right; he’s met them before, that much is true. Viktor’s a long-time family friend, and Molly and Lucy have encountered him at more than a few events by now. 

But for Viktor to say he knows that Percy  _ has _ children...well, it would take too long to explain to Viktor that knowing Molly and Lucy exist is a far cry from understanding what it means for them to be Percy’s Children. 

He is a father: that is at once a central truth and an astonishing revelation. Nothing means more; nothing could ever mean more. 

But Percy doesn’t need Viktor to understand all that just yet. All he needs now is a little more care from the both of them, as they try and puzzle through what fits where. 

“I mean...with things going as well as they are...I’m thinking about telling them,” he says, looking at Viktor intently. “Would you want that?” 

There is no doubt in Viktor’s dark eyes, but he does the prudent thing and holds off for a beat before answering. 

“Of course,” he says evenly, before cocking his head to one side. “You are looking frightened by this.”

“Am I?” Percy feels his cheeks turning hot. “It’s nothing to do with you, of course! It’s only that they’re my daughters. I need to go about it the right way.”

Viktor nods. 

“You will,” he says. And when Viktor says such things, there’s no fluff added in, no reassuring smiles that don’t meet the eyes, or a half-hearted rub of the shoulder. His tone is always perfectly serious and entirely certain. “You tell me what you need from me, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Percy says, and he holds him tighter as Viktor lays his head back down on Percy’s chest. He lets the wheels in his head spin for a few minutes, balancing his rapid-fire thoughts against Viktor’s even breaths. 

“It’ll be a good thing, to tell them now,” he finally says, half to himself. Viktor nods, eyes still closed. 

“Very good.” 


	3. Chapter 3

They are particular things, Percy’s girls. Not like Sashka and Damyan at all. All the same, Viktor is immediately fond of them, for their own sakes and for the way they reflect Percy back at him. 

Molly has inherited her father’s proud chin, his discerning (sometimes unforgiving) eye for discrepancies. She doesn’t talk much to Viktor, but he can detect no coldness or hesitancy—only a vague disinterest in chatter that seems to extend to most people. At almost ten years old, she thinks herself quite grown up. She likes her pet mice, gobstones, and books about Egypt. 

Lucy has inherited her father’s chatter, the way he buzzes and flits about a room. Quick to smile and even quicker to ask questions, she clings to Viktor’s side the moment he crosses the threshold. Percy tells Viktor that she really doesn’t have  _ such _ a lilting voice...she’s putting it on, he says, as six year olds often do when faced with a new adult who might indulge them. She likes feeding the chickens, blue-colored sweets, and asking Daddy how the Floo goes (again). 

If either of them are bothered by Viktor’s presence, they don’t show it. 

“They took the news rather well,” Percy tells him as the girls race to the closet to grab the picnic basket. “But then, Audrey got the brunt of it when she started dating again...they’ve made their peace with it by now.”

Still, Viktor thinks through his every move when he’s around them, knowing he can’t hold Percy in just the same way as he does when they’re alone. Not yet, anyway. 

It’s small shifts: an arm draped about the shoulders instead of the waist. Percy’s hand resting on Viktor’s knee instead of his inner thigh. The kisses he’s grown so used to snatching up every few minutes turned into pecks on the cheek. 

It’s strange: these new touches are more potent, somehow. As though with every squeeze of Percy’s hand at one of Lucy’s giggles, Viktor can feel himself being trusted with something more important, something more intimate, than ever before. 

As the energy of the picnic dwindles and the twilight begins to make its first appearance, something pulls on Viktor’s heart, and he feels flushed with a new kind of affection for Percy. The touch of his fingertips grows softer and his body leans closer into Percy’s, as he comes to a realization under those first few stars. 

No lover has ever put Viktor in the context of domestic tranquility, of evening picnics in the backyard. They’ve wanted passion and secrecy and excitement...and when those things left, they left with them. But Percy acts though it’s nothing, to shove two tiny sky blue cloaks in Viktor’s hands “just in case the wind picks up.” 

It’s one of the most charming things about Percy: he has gifts, too, and yet they don’t seem to gnaw at him the way Viktor’s do. He’s never consumed, never lost in the import of his own existence. It’s one thing, and then it’s the next, and they all fit together without Percy brooding over them. 

His world is light to the touch in spite of its intricacies, and he thinks nothing of fitting Viktor in alongside everything else. 

Percy fiddles with the cork on a wine bottle, finally sighing and searching for his wand in the folds of the blanket. 

“I swear, this blanket swallows things whole...” he murmurs, a chuckle in his voice. Viktor, smiling fondly, reaches for the bottle. 

“Here, darling…” he says. “Let me…”

He sees Molly’s head turn sharply towards them, but she doesn’t speak. Viktor can feel her eyes on them as he helps Percy with the wine. 

Lucy, with the tone of someone who knows the answer, asks if she can have some. She shrugs when Percy refuses, reaching into the basket for some strawberries. 

“Viktor, are you going to fly when we go to Pata-go-la?” she asks, settling down next to Percy. 

“Patago _ nia _ , love,” Percy says, brushing his hand across her hair. 

“Patago _ nia _ ,” Lucy repeats in a sing-song voice, her eyes never leaving Viktor. “ _ Are  _ you?”

“I am hoping to, yes,” Viktor says. “If my team makes it to the final game.” 

“Daddy says we can stay at the game even if it goes really late!” Lucy says, handing Percy a strawberry. “And we can sleep in our seats if we have to, but I won’t because I’ll be too excited!”

Viktor doesn’t need another reason to do everything he can to play in the Quidditch World Cup Final. However, having Lucy’s enthusiasm behind him doesn’t hurt. 

“Have you started flying yet?” he asks Lucy. 

“Yes, but only if a grown-up is there, and I can’t play Quidditch yet because I need both hands on the broom until I’m bigger.” She looks up at Percy. “Right, Daddy?”

“That’s right,” Percy says, reaching for another strawberry. 

“But I’m going to play when I get big,” Lucy tells Viktor, looking serious as anything. “Auntie Ginny’s going to teach me. Or you can, if you live here.”

“Lucy!” Percy exclaims, looking down at Lucy so quickly his glasses slide down to the edge of his nose. 

Lucy, perhaps used to her father’s dramatics, only fixes him with a mild look. 

“Martin lives with Mummy, so Viktor can live here,” she explains. “Right?”

“Well, I—” Percy meets Viktor’s eyes for the briefest instant, his cheeks going red. “That’s a grown-up conversation.”

Lucy gives a good-natured sigh before popping up off the blanket. 

“Can we go see my babies?” she asks Percy before turning to Viktor. “The chickens are my babies,” she tells him for the third time that evening. 

When Percy agrees, Lucy runs off in the direction of the henhouse with a shriek. 

“Daddy! Race me!!”

Viktor is somewhat surprised when Percy chases after her without hesitation, scooping her up in his arms when he catches her. 

“No, that’s not a race, Daddy!” she cries out through her giggles. Viktor can’t hear what Percy says to her, but it makes Lucy shriek with laughter and throw her arms around his neck. Percy turns back to him, a wide grin on his face. 

“Come on, then!” he shouts. 

“Molly!!” Lucy yells. “Race me and Daddy!!”

But Molly takes her time about standing, picking up a handful of strawberries for the journey and straightening her cloak. Viktor stands at the edge of the blanket, tentatively waiting for her. As she begins to walk, Viktor follows alongside her in silence. 

“Lucy’s always asking questions she’s not supposed to…” Molly finally says, shooting Viktor a knowing look. 

Viktor smiles. 

“I have a little sister also,” he says, half to the ground. “She is going to be thirty-four, and still she is asking too many questions.” 

He takes it as a good sign that Molly laughs at this. 

“You enjoy having a sister?” he asks, and Molly considers this question before nodding. 

“Yes.  _ Mostly.”  _

She looks up at Percy and Lucy in the distance, squinting. Viktor has a feeling she’s doing some calculations in her head, and he can feel her footsteps slowing down almost to a halt. He follows suit, hoping that’s what she means for him to do. 

It seems so, for she edges closer to him before saying in a low voice: 

“My dad really likes you.” 

Viktor, unsure of how to respond, merely raises his eyebrows. That seems to be enough, for Molly continues, glancing up at him occasionally with a look of deep concern: 

“I know my dad really well because we’re sort of the same, and sometimes when I really like something I get nervous. And then I get quiet when I’m nervous, and people think I don’t like things as much as I do.”

“Ah,” Viktor says. They are getting close to the henhouse, now, and he can hear Percy’s carrying voice explaining the Floo to Lucy (again). 

“I just wanted to tell you in case that happens with my dad,” Molly says, so quietly Viktor almost can’t hear her over the clucking of chickens. 

“Thank you for the advice,” he says. “I will remember that.” 

Molly never looks more like her father than when she smiles. 


	4. Chapter 4

He needn’t come to Argentina before the Final, Viktor tells Percy, as if it’s a sure thing that Bulgaria will make it to the last game. 

“They won’t be letting me out much, anyway,” he says with a smile. 

Percy knows the feeling. England’s bid for the 2026 cup hasn’t even gone through, and Tamara Hornby from Magical Games and Sports is already insisting on land surveys for Portkeys. Rightfully so, of course: the projected numbers suggest they’ll need upwards of thirteen thousand Portkeys, just to get people into the camping grounds. And getting them in is the easier part by far…

Still, the constant paperwork makes Percy restless—a new phenomenon, and one Percy tries desperately to hide with more cups of coffee and a sudden interest in desk trinkets. As if a certain number of paperweights can dull the urge to toss the surveys—toss everything—and head off for Argentina now. The further Bulgaria progresses, the closer they get to that elusive final game, the worse the restlessness gets. 

He nearly shouts for joy when Tamara asks if he can make the trip out with her for the semifinals, to see how the Argentine Council for Magic will handle what she calls “the hot zone” of the tournament.

“Semis is when things go mad,” she tells Percy. His eyes land on the (currently scowling) picture of Gwenog Jones on her desk, and he wonders if Tamara’s also feeling restless. 

Then again, she might just want to prevent her girlfriend from trying to hex off any more faces before the Cup ends. 

In any case, he’s not about to turn down a paid trip. He has to bring along Jack Starbloom, head of the Portkey Division, of course. He also invites Mackenzie Puckle, a Charms expert who floats between departments, but has a real shine for free standing Floos. 

Lastly, remembering what it was like to be eighteen, he asks Mabel to come along as well, and he tries not to smile when she nearly falls over in her chair from excitement. 

“Do you think I ought to have brought the latest international Portkey reports, Mr. Weasley?” Mabel asks anxiously, almost as soon as they’ve Apparated to Customs. 

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll have any need for those,” Percy says, handing his Ministry identification card to an exhausted security witch and placing his bag on a table that thanks him in ten different languages. “Between you and me, Mabel, I doubt we’ll spend more than a few hours doing anything of any importance.” 

The table shakes and calls out for Percy to remove his bag, and he does so, grinning at the look of bewilderment on Mabel’s face. 

“Most people don’t like working when there are parties to go to and old friends to see and bets to be making…” Percy explains. Mabel nods readily, though he can tell she doesn’t really understand. 

“Have you ever been to Argentina before, Mr. Weasley?” she asks, struggling to lift her overfull luggage.

“I haven’t, no,” Percy says, taking the heaviest bag and heaving it onto the security table. “Have you?”

“No, I haven’t been anywhere, hardly.” 

“You’ll have quite a list in a few years, believe me,” Percy says as the table starts to shake. “Ah, there’s Edward Greengrass…”

Edward Greengrass, who heads the Department of International Magical Cooperation, is eyeing one of the luggage inspection tables with distrust. Percy braces himself, turning to look at Mabel. 

“You’ve met Mr. Greengrass by now, haven’t you?” 

“A few times…” Mabel says, her tone devoid of its usual enthusiasm. Percy smiles, glancing over at Greengrass, who is now berating one of the security wizards about something or other. He’s never been friendly, but Greengrass has grown more irritable than ever in the past five years (and, if you ask Percy, quite incapable of keeping up with his workload). 

“And what did you think of him?” 

Mabel opens her mouth, then closes it. 

“I mean, of course he’s quite clever about international law, isn’t he?” she finally says, a flush starting in her cheeks. 

“I’ve been told so…” Percy says dryly. “I started in Magical Cooperation, doing just about the same things you’re doing—now, Edward was only a junior liaison minister at the time—and he didn’t so much as look at me unless he wanted something. And he never asked, either. It was always a demand, and it had to be right then and there. Most unpleasant.”

“Is he always like that, then?” Mabel exclaims, a look of genuine surprise on her face. “I thought he just didn’t like me!”

“No, it has nothing to do with you. He’s a snob,” Percy says in a low voice, glancing at his watch as he notices Greengrass approaching. “That department is a snake pit...always has been—Edward, how  _ are _ you?” 


	5. Chapter 5

The entire stadium is erupting with cheers and exclamations, and Viktor does everything he can to shut them out as the Snitch flits out of sight. He flies down to get a better look at Vulchanov, who is draped across Japanese Seeker Noriko Sato’s broom, still unconscious. Play finally stops as the referee calls for mediwizards to enter the pitch. 

There’d been no other choice, Viktor tells himself. It wouldn’t have been winning, to catch the Snitch in a chase that had stopped being a chase after Sato had dived down to save Vulchanov. She’d risked losing in order to protect a player from the opposing team; he wouldn’t be worthy of the sport if he’d done anything but pull up and let the Snitch go by. 

Most of his teammates, though shaken, seem to agree. A few of them even smile as cries of “Krum!” come from the stands. 

Vulchanov, however, is bitterly disappointed upon coming to. 

“You should have taken it!”

“Sato was helping you,” Viktor says, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

His eyes are fixed on the referee. If they start up again soon, he might be able to trace the Snitch’s path. 

“Then she’s a fool too, isn’t she?” Vulchanov grumbles, shrugging off the hands of the mediwitch still inspecting him. “I was doing my job as a Beater...if the Seekers were doing theirs, we could be drinking by now.”

Viktor shakes his head. Vulchanov’s like his father: unflinchingly loyal to his teammates, but hopelessly apathetic about the precepts of sportsmanship. 

“The Snitch will come around again,” he says.

However, for six hours, neither he nor Sato spots even the slightest golden glimmer. Meanwhile, the Japenese Chasers have made quick work of the Bulgarian defense: they are now 250 points up, and the frustration in the stands is seeping out into the pitch. 

_ There’s a circle around you _ , Viktor thinks, recalling the mantras that had been drilled into his head from an early age.  _ Imagine it as big as you can, then smaller, smaller...anything outside of it does not exist. Anything outside of it cannot be loud. Cannot be a disruption. Cannot matter. Smaller, smaller...let it be quiet. Let it be still. It’s easier to see, in the circle. You can let anything inside of it, anything you want...do you want it to be noise? Do you want it to be fear? Look around...what do you want to see inside the circle? Let it come to you. _

He spots a flash of gold across the stadium. Sato is already speeding towards it, and Viktor chases after her, focusing not on the Snitch, but on Sato’s movements. 

_ The circle can hold whatever you want.  _

Sato flies with such precision, such skill, that if Viktor were chasing the Snitch, he’d run the risk of being outmaneuvered. 

But he doesn’t need the Snitch. He just needs to pin Sato in so the Snitch can escape again. 

He hears the crowd groan as the chase ends, but there’s a cry of excitement coming from the Bulgarian players. Vassileva tosses the Quaffle from halfway across the pitch and scores, throwing her hands up in the air with gusto. 

“Ten more!!” she yells, clapping Grozda on the shoulder before grinning up at Viktor. “We’ll do it!!” 

Then, just for a moment, Viktor’s circle widens again, and he can see himself at eighteen, scowling with a Snitch in his hand, blood dripping onto his robes, feeling certain that the only thing he could have done for his team was help them save face. 

Viktor knows better, this time. If they lose, they lose. But Bulgaria won’t lose because Viktor doesn’t have faith that they might still win. 

The Bulgarians—playing with a new energy—swallow up the gap in the score. Within the hour, Viktor is searching for the Snitch, not to block Sato, but to catch it himself. 

Sato, once she’s caught sight of the Snitch, will be difficult to beat. She’s not fooled by flashy diversions: if she doesn’t have eyes on the Snitch, she won’t dive. It’s cost her some games, but it’s won her far more. 

With ten hours of play behind them, Viktor wants a sure thing. 

And so, when he first spots the Snitch, glittering and diving across the stadium, he waits. His circle widens, and he hears the Japanese Beaters chattering on his left. Sato hears them, too, and she dips lower to give them plenty of room. Viktor, his eyes never quite leaving the Snitch, glances over his left shoulder before turning sharply to the right, as if to avoid an onslaught of Bludgers. 

The turn puts him right in the Snitch’s path, and he makes a show of looking back one more time. His hand opens, only reaching when he’s sure, when he knows he can tighten his circle around the Snitch and only the Snitch. 

At first, no one notices that he’s caught it. Even his own voice fails him as he stares down at the ball, warm to the touch, fitting perfectly in his palm. After ten hours, he’s caught it. After ten hours, Bulgaria has won their spot in the final match. 

Draganov is the first to shout with excitement, and at his exclamation, Viktor thrusts his fist into the air, pulling his broom up so the officials can see the Snitch in his hand. The stadium begins to roar, and soon his teammates are throwing themselves on him, some of them shouting, others sobbing. 

Levksi pulls his son into a crushing hug as they land in the manager’s box. Everyone’s family is crowding around, and Emiliya rushes over to Viktor, Damyan and Sashka on her heels. 

“You were beautiful,” Emiliya says, throwing her arms around Viktor’s neck. “So beautiful…” 

The announcer names the Bulgarian players once more, fueling the crowd’s fervor: 

“Grozda, Vassileva, Levski, Vulchanov, Dragonov, Zdravko… y  _ Krum!” _

The crowd roars, and Emiliya squeezes him tighter. 

“Do you hear them?” she says in his ear. “They all want you to win. Not Bulgaria. You.”

Viktor says nothing. Now that the game is over, it’s almost impossible for him to ignore the thunderous chants of “Krum!” coming from all sides of the arena. 

“Go see them!” Emiliya says with a laugh, pushing him towards the front of the box. 

“In a minute!” Viktor says, looking down at Sashka, who has wrapped her arms around his left forearm, her head leaning against him. “I’m with my family.”

He prods Sashka so that she looks up at him. 

“Did you enjoy the game?” he asks. Sashka nods, though he can tell from her tired eyes that ten hours of gameplay have taken their toll. 

“Do you ever get sick, going that fast?” 

“No...I like it,” he says with a smile. “You know, if you go fast enough, you can hardly feel the broom underneath you.”

Sashka’s eyes go wide. “I don’t want to go that fast…ever.”

“I do!” Damyan exclaims. “Can I have a go on it when we get back home?”

Viktor laughs, promising him a ride “if they let me keep the broom…”

Emiliya is still enraptured with the crowd, which has grown only louder as other players have flown back out onto the pitch to flaunt their win. Vassileva is turning somersaults on her broom to great applause. 

“Viktor, you really should—”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he says, silencing Emiliya with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going. One time around…”

He cuts his celebratory flight short when he catches sight of Sato lingering at the edge of the Japanese teams’ box. She has that lost, shaken look in her eyes that Viktor recognizes well. To come so close to achieving your dream and then watching it disappear...Viktor wishes there were words that could help dull the pain that comes with such a loss, but he knows from experience that nothing will really help.

Still, he dips down to the box’s level, and Sato gives him room to land. In spite of her shining eyes, she smiles at him, bowing her head before holding out a hand. Viktor takes it in both of his own, shaking it fervently. 

“You played wonderfully,” he says in English. “You keep flying as you are...you will be winning the Cup in four years.”

“Thank you…” she says, and for a moment she looks truly happy. And she has every right to be. She’s young; it’s only her first Cup. “I hoped to play you. Everyone here did.” 

She looks down sheepishly before asking: 

“Would you sign a program? For my father?”

* * *

Perhaps it’s that he hasn’t seen Percy in six weeks. Perhaps it’s that Viktor’s senses are heightened after ten hours of Seeking. Perhaps he’s only feeling sentimental because of Bulgaria’s win. 

In any case, he can’t help but drink in the particulars of Percy as they come together, finally awake and alert as the midday sun shines through the cracks in Viktor’s tent. 

The light dusting of freckles along the bridge of Percy’s nose. The darker, denser pattern of freckles across his cheeks. How much bluer his eyes seem when he takes his glasses off, when his eyes are so close to Viktor’s that Viktor can feel Percy’s breath on his skin. How the touch of his hands is soft, but his kisses are hard, leaving marks down his neck and along his collarbone. 

How easy it is to make Percy laugh during sex—loudly and without restraint, the lines around his eyes creasing as he tosses his head back in laughter before kissing Viktor fiercely, or perhaps pressing himself deeper inside Viktor, his movements instilled with a new energy. 

Viktor’s never had such a keen and earnest lover—in or out of bed. It’s contagious, the warmth that radiates off of Percy: it dissolves the tension in Viktor’s spirit, unquiets the deepest parts of him. There’s no fear of what might happen if he comes undone, if he cries out more loudly than before, if his voice shakes while asking for more. 

That’s the most wonderful particular of all: the intimacy Percy brings to his world, the tenderness. Viktor has missed it, all these weeks standing in front of cameras, trying to decide how often he needs to smile, how many stupid questions from the press he needs to answer. 

All the world, clawing at him, trying to define and pick apart and explain his talent, how he compares to other Seekers. Greatness and glory and the looming question of legacy surround his every move. 

But here, Viktor is only a person. A person who is loved by someone who is good. Loved by someone who is good, who loves Viktor for the goodness he sees in Viktor. 

Percy’s hands trace patterns on Viktor’s back as they settle into each other’s arms, and the kisses he plants on Viktor’s shoulders and face are gentle, now. 

“I missed you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against Viktor’s before kissing him with an open, but unhurried, mouth. 

“I missed you, too.” Viktor lays back against Percy’s chest, his hand reaching for Percy’s, intertwining their fingers together before kissing Percy’s hand. 

“What do you want to do now?” Percy asks.

“Now?” Viktor chuckles in disbelief. “Now, I want to rest for a minute.”

Percy nods, closing his eyes and sighing. 

“That sounds nice, actually…”

“You have work?”

“No, no...nothing for today.” Percy gives a lazy shake of his head, his eyes opening slowly. “Tomorrow, yes. Not today.”

“Good.” 

He can hear the chatter and laughter of Bulgaria’s prolonged celebration coming from all sides. He should join them, he thinks, though he’s reluctant to get up and acknowledge that he will, in fact, be competing in his third World Cup Final. 

If Bulgaria loses, Viktor will not see another World Cup stage. If he’s lucky, he has two more years of national play in him. He’s been taking stock of his own ability since he first contemplated coming back three years ago, and he knows the score.

He can complete another European League Championship, perhaps even the Dragon Cup in 2016. But then it will be over. 

And what if Bulgaria wins? Will it feel like an ending? Or will it just make him want more of the same? 

And what if he’s already taken too much? What if—as Emiliya used to say when they were children—he has stolen too much attention for himself?

“What are you thinking?” 

Viktor hasn’t noticed Percy staring down at him, his brow knit. When he looks up at him, Percy runs a hand through Viktor’s hair.

“Something wrong?” he murmurs, and Viktor shakes his head. 

“It is only…do you think I am taking this chance away from someone else? Winning the Cup?”

“If the chance was meant for someone else, then they’d be the one here,” Percy says with an air of finality, tightening his grip around Viktor. 

“But I have had this chance before. Three times.” Viktor shifts in Percy’s arms so that he can better face him. “And I have already played two finals.”

“Plenty of players go to several World Cups—”

“—not as starters. Not when they are old.”

Percy only smiles. 

“Well,  _ old  _ isn’t exactly the word I’d use…” 

“...what word would you use?” Viktor can feel his own expression softening. 

Percy thinks for a moment before answering. 

“You’re a seasoned athlete.”

“Seasoned?” Viktor turns his head to one side. “Like meat?”

“No, no,” Percy says with a laugh. “I mean, like the seasons...spring and summer and whatnot.”

Viktor wrinkles his nose. “I liked mine better…yours is still meaning old.”

“Experienced!” Percy insists as he moves his face closer to Viktor’s, his smile broadening. 

“In being old,” Viktor retorts. He closes the gap between them before Percy can argue, giving him a long, grateful kiss. When Percy finally pulls away, there’s a new severity in his gaze. 

“You’re going to win,” he tells Viktor, his eyes never leaving his. “And then it won’t matter what you are: old, seasoned, served with potatoes…you’ll have done what you came here to do. And no one here—no one—wants it the way you do. Has done the work you have. No one.” 

Percy kisses him again, and this time Viktor pulls Percy’s face closer to his, cupping Percy’s cheeks in his hands. When it ends, he pulls back just far enough to look Percy in the eye before saying: 

“You are magnificent.”

Those blue eyes widen in confusion, perhaps even shock. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you,” Viktor says, moving one of his hands through Percy’s hair, settling at the nape of his neck. “You are what I want to be, when this is finished.”

Percy looks at a loss for words. 

“Boring?” he finally says, though the quip comes too late to seem especially funny. Viktor shakes his head, pulling Percy on top of him.

“I would not say boring…” he teases, running his hands up and down Percy’s sides. Percy laughs, a flush starting in his cheeks. 

“What would you say?” 

“Strong,” Viktor says, one hand passing along Percy’s arm. “Steady. Sure.” 

“Seasoned?” Percy says, raising an eyebrow. 

“More than the usual Englishman…”

He lets Percy thank him for the compliment with a kiss that leaves his knees weak and has him relaxing back into the reassurance Percy has given him about what’s to come. 

“I want coffee,” Percy murmurs, and Viktor nods in agreement. 

“And breakfast.”

Breakfast, as they find out when they leave Viktor’s tent twenty minutes later, stopped being served some time ago. 

Thankfully, coffee is served all day.


	6. Chapter 6

The Weasleys have always been a difficult bunch to miss, even when Percy was a child and had often wished his family was a bit more discreet. Nowadays, their original nine-membered clan seems small compared to the massive wave of children and grandchildren and in-laws and cousins and family friends that swarm any event they decide to attend. 

As Percy squints in the late afternoon sun, scanning the constant flow of people piling into the campgrounds, he’s glad of his family’s broad footsteps. He can hear Charlie laughing before he sees them, but as soon as his head turns, there they all are, taking up entirely too much space. 

Before he can so much as hold up a hand to wave, Dominique has spotted him, tugged on Bill’s sleeve, and suddenly the whole lot of them are waving and shouting and grinning ear-to-ear.

Charlie reaches him first, spurred on by an eager Lucy, who is sitting on his shoulders. 

“Daddy!” she shouts, all but using Charlie as a launching pad to jump into Percy’s arms. “What are you doing over here?”

“I’m waiting for you, of course! What else would I be doing?” Lucy grins and throws her hands around his neck.

Molly rushes over, releasing her grip on Roxanne’s hand to clasp him around the waist. Percy, shifting Lucy’s weight to the side, hugs her with his free arm.

“I missed you…” he says, and Molly looks up at him with a wide smile. 

“We passed by so many tents from all over the world!” she says, keeping a tight hold of his hand even as the rest of the family begins to greet Percy. “And I knew where all of them were, except for a few. And Uncle Bill knew some people from Egypt, even!! They gave us these…”

She waves a miniature Egyptian flag with pride as they all amble down to their campsite. 

“That’s marvelous,” Percy says. “And Uncle Bill helped you pack up everything?”

Molly shakes her head. “Uncle George did it, mostly. Uncle Bill had to work late last night.”

“Oh,” Percy blinks. “Well that’s...that was good of George, wasn’t it?” 

Privately, Percy wonders if he’ll have to make a run for overpriced team socks before the trip is over.

Thankfully, George packed the girls plenty of socks—along with every other warm thing they own—in a (rather uncharacteristic) overabundance of caution. Percy spends a comfortable afternoon exploring the campsite with Molly and Lucy, who are both fit to burst with excitement. They volley question after question at Percy, who is only too happy to stop and explain when he can. 

He doesn’t know what he’d have done if he hadn’t been gifted with curious children, he thinks, watching them inspect one of the child-safe fire pits that is keeping the campsites warm against the Patagonian winter. Lucy keeps reaching out her hand to touch the soft, blue light radiating from the flames, giggling at how the flames move far out of reach when her fingers brush against the light. 

“It’s good that they did it this way,” Molly tells Percy, looking solemn. “There’s lots of little kids all over.”

“It’s Teddy and Uncle Harry!!” Lucy calls out, pointing off in the distance, where Percy can see Harry walking with Teddy. She races off to meet them, eagerly pulling Teddy by the hand to show him the fire pits. 

“They’re blue like your hair…” Percy can hear her giggling. Teddy, always a good sport, kneels down beside her and nods along to Lucy’s explanation of the magical properties of fire-pits. Percy’s stomach twists at how very like his father Teddy seems in such moments. Percy had been about Teddy’s age when Professor Lupin had listened patiently to his worries about his N.E.W.T. levels, assuring and reassuring Percy that he didn’t have anything to worry about. 

And then his hair—well, that was all Tonks, wasn’t it? Like all of Charlie’s friends, she’d been confident, quick to say hello and even quicker to smile. 

The weight of their presence in Teddy’s features can grow too painful, and Percy forces himself to shake it off, refocusing his attention on his daughters’ perception of things. Lucy and Molly see only a kind, earnest young man who can be trusted with all manner of imaginative ramblings and obscure facts. 

Perhaps that perspective matters more, when all is said and done. 

Harry hardly waits for the perfunctory greetings to finish before leading Percy away from the fire-pit. 

“I think Rita is going to write something about it being me,” he tells Percy, his cheeks pink. 

“You being what?” Percy asks distractedly, his eyes still on his children. 

“That I’m Viktor’s...well, you know.” Harry’s eyes drop to the ground as Percy’s head swivels towards him. “Ever since Draganov got caught with an American for each hand, she’s been chasing down another lead.”

“I really haven’t had time for her gossip,” Percy says, feigning interest in the cloud formations above them. “Anyway, why would she think it’s  _ you _ ?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says with a shrug. “But she was definitely eyeing us when I took James and Al over to meet him…”

Percy shakes his head but says nothing. 

“Though, if she runs with the story, it’ll be one of the kindest things she’s ever said about me,” Harry says, flashing Percy a hesitant smile. 

Percy tries to return the gesture, but he can tell his lips are too tight to be forming anything but a grimace. “Apart from the fact that you’re supposed to be married to my sister…” 

“Well, she’s had it coming, keeping me trapped with love potions all these years…”

Percy doesn’t laugh. 

“Skeeter’s vulgar,” he says, the edge in his voice clipping the thread of their current conversation. “I see Teddy’s changed his hair again.”

Harry sighs. “He’s trying out a new look. I had to talk Andromeda off of a ledge over it.”

“You’re braver than I am…”

* * *

The Weasley-Potters & Friends co-opt an entire corner of the VIP campsite. Almost as soon as the tents are put up, a collective amnesia overtakes the group, and they forget whose tent is whose. Cousins prepare for sleepovers, siblings spend hours at each other’s coffee tables, and as the stars come out, so do all Weasleys. They gather around the fires, laughing and chattering and trying to keep track of whose children are where. 

Percy leans back in his lawn chair, his eyes half closed. He can hear Lucy’s peals of laughter as she chases Lily around the campgrounds. He should tell her to start quieting down before bedtime...but that would mean getting up. 

“Uncle Perce!” Fred races towards Percy’s chair, holding out a cookie he’s just procured from Angelina. “I got this for you!”

The gift, as it turns out, is merely an excuse for Fred to climb up onto Percy’s chair, settling himself next to him and leaning into Percy’s side. 

“I didn’t take a nap today…” he confesses to Percy, who puts an arm around him. 

“You must be sleepy, then.”

“No,” Fred says, yawning. 

“Oh, I see…” Percy says with a laugh. He moves the blanket covering his lap and pulls it over Fred, who draws it up to his chin. Fred stretches his toes out as far as they can go, testing the limits of the blanket until he’s satisfied that it will suit his needs. 

“Hey!” Fred exclaims, eyeing Percy with suspicion. “Where’s that cookie?”

Percy holds it out to Fred, who stares at his uncle, aghast. 

“You have to eat it!”

“I’m not hungry; you can have it,” he says, pushing it towards Fred, who makes a show of shaking his head before suggesting that perhaps they could share it?

Percy agrees with this compromise, handing Fred the larger half of the cookie. 

“My Mummy made it…” he tells Percy. “She makes them with soooo many chocolate chips.”

Percy—who prefers to use chocolate chips sparingly, himself—politely bites into the cookie, agreeing with Fred that there’s nothing quite like homemade treats. 

They’ve finished with the cookie and are wondering how many stars are in the sky when George approaches, a smile on his face. 

“I knew I’d find you over here…” he says, pulling a lawn chair next to Percy’s and prodding Fred’s side. “It’s getting to be that time, Freddy.”

Fred pulls his blanket up to his ears, contemplating his options. 

“In five minutes?” he says, holding up his fingers. George smiles.

“You know what, for that face? I’ll give you ten.”

Fred sits up, his brow furrowed.

“No, Daddy, _ five _ minutes!!” he exclaims, holding his hand out again for emphasis. 

“Well, you drive a hard bargain…” George laughs. “Let me see... _ two _ five minutes, and that’s my final offer.”

Fred considers this for a moment before settling back down in his seat. 

“Okay.”

George looks up at the sky, then back at Percy. 

“So: are you planning on snogging Viktor silly in front of the entire world if Bulgaria wins?” he asks. 

“Merlin, George…”

“Going to see what happens in the moment, eh? That’s fair.” 

Percy stares down at Fred, who already looks half asleep. 

“Did Harry tell you that Rita Skeeter thinks Viktor’s secretly dating him?” he finally says, not looking at George. 

George throws his head back and laughs so hard that half the children stop playing to stare at him. 

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny…” Percy says dryly. 

“Oh, come off it...you aren’t jealous, are you?”

“Of course not…” Percy says, bristling. “I just don’t see any particular reason for her to...well, Draganov was one thing, but Harry—”

“—is the most famous wizard of the century, right?” George says. “If he so much as sneezed in Viktor’s direction, she’d write about it, because it’ll sell.”

“I know that…”

“And?” George says, leaning towards Percy. His eyes are sparkling, but Percy has learned to notice that sometimes the sparkle is only a veneer, behind which lies real strength and concern. He’s grown to like talking to George, most especially about serious things. 

“Well, inevitably...eventually...people are going to know who he’s really seeing,” he admits, glancing down at his hands. 

“And you don’t think you compare? Look: none of us can be Harry. The whole world’s got to accept that, right? That’s a given. But you’re hardly a nonentity, are you? You’re going to be in the history books for telling Dolores Umbridge to rot in hell in a courtroom—”

“—that’s not really what happened—”

“—and don’t think we haven’t all noticed how fit you’ve gotten since dating him,” George says, shoving Percy’s shoulder. “And you know what? I like the way the new Floo runs.”

At this, Percy perks up. 

“Do you really?” he says. “You know, I think once people get used to it and we work out some of the kinks in the—”

“—sure, sure, of course,” George says, nodding profusely. “And Freddy likes it, doesn’t he? Fred, tell Uncle Perce what you told Granddad about the Floo after we used it the other day.”

Fred giggles. 

“I said, ‘I didn’t puke this time!’”

Percy blinks in the midst of their laughter. 

“Well, it  _ is _ designed not to jerk so much…” he says. “It was Florence Ditherson who managed the charmwork...one of my first hires, actually. I was quite proud of that.”

“And all  _ I’ve _ done is find ways to turn people’s clothing into spiders…” George quips. “That’s a joke, by the way. Can’t figure out how to do it for the life of me…” 

Percy smiles. “Perhaps someday...”

“You’ll be the first to know, Perce,” George says, winking. “Come on, Freddy…”

“Has it been two fives?” Fred asks Percy incredulously. 

“Why are you looking at Uncle Percy?” George stands, shaking his head. “Doesn’t even trust his own father to tell him the truth...hasn’t it been two fives, Perce?”   


“It has,” says Percy with a solemn nod. Fred sighs, sitting up with no small amount of reluctance. He reaches out for George, who scoops him up in his arms. 

“Night, Perce. Say goodnight, Fred…”

“Goodnight, Uncle Perce,” Fred says, waving a lazy hand in Percy’s direction. 

Percy stands as well, feeling a tad less lethargic. He really does need to put the girls to bed…

Fleur’s voice carries through the stillness of the evening hours, and Percy can hear her advancing at a brisk pace, talking rapidly to someone who—as of yet—has not interjected their opinions on the new architecture in her hometown. 

“—they have turned the whole square into a blight—he is over here, I think—of course, it is the same with all these modern buildings everywhere you go...it is like watching children working with blocks...horrible. Ah, here he is!”

Percy can only just see Fleur waving him over in the shadowy firelight, the flickering flames briefly illuminating her partner in conversation. 

“Viktor!” 

Viktor, haphazardly holding a glass of white wine, smiles at Percy. 

“I wanted to see the girls before the game, if they are not asleep,” he explains. “I could not get away before.” 

“Of course, of course…I was just going to put them to bed...”

“Oh, but they are coming to the sleepover, are they not?” Fleur says, swirling her glass of wine. “Ginny said all the girls were going.”

Percy knows by now that there will be no arguing with such plans. There are few forces in the world quite as powerful as the scheming of cousins. If placed within shouting distance of one another, they will conspire to keep themselves together at all costs. 

And so, ten minutes later, Percy is packing an overnight bag, and Viktor is admiring the signs Molly and Lucy made for the game tomorrow. 

“Will you be able to see it when you’re flying?” Lucy asks, no small amount of concern in her voice. 

“Of course,” Viktor lies. He is soft with them, always. In truth, Percy hadn’t expected it to feel quite so natural, having Viktor around his children. He’d expected some sort of shock to the system, some shadow of a scandal...and yet nothing could be more intuitive.

Percy has asked Audrey—purely as a hypothetical, of course—whether she would consider it appropriate for Viktor to move in. 

“You know him better than I do,” she’d said. “But I like him. And I trust you.”

All that remains is for Percy to work up the courage to ask. It’ll have to wait until the Cup is over...Viktor doesn’t need any distractions. 

But afterwards...Percy stops packing to watch Viktor animatedly tell a story of how a fan once caught the Snitch at a European League game. Afterwards, he will have to find a way to do it, he thinks, listening to Molly and Lucy’s laughter. 

“Now, this bag has all your things, alright?” he says, pressing the knapsack into Molly’s hands. “Change of clothes, extra pajamas, toothbrushes...you put all your things in here when you leave, and that way we won’t lose anything.”

“Okay.”

Percy turns to Lucy. “And you be good and listen to your aunt and uncle. Yes?”

“Yes,” Lucy says, briefly wrapping her arms around Percy’s waist as if for reassurance. 

“And I don’t want to hear that you two were arguing with one another, or else you’ll be skipping the next sleepover,” Percy says, eyeing both of them over his glasses. “You understand?”

They both look at each other before nodding. Percy runs through his mind one last time before relaxing his shoulders.

“Come here…” They hurry to his sides—Molly to the right, Lucy to the left. “I love you both. You hold hands and stay together walking in the dark, alright? Aunt Ginny’s tent is just two down from ours.”

They leave, dutifully holding hands. Before the tent flap has quite closed, Lucy pokes her head back in. 

“Love you, Daddy! Love you, Viktor!” she exclaims, before turning back around and disappearing again. Percy can hear her shouting at Molly to hold her hand, and—if the quiet that falls over the night is any indication—Molly obliges. 

“I hope Ginny is ready for them…” Percy says, smiling at Viktor. Viktor nods, though Percy has a feeling he hasn’t really head what Percy’s said. His eyes are far away, his brow set in what looks suspiciously like concern. Percy fiddles with a plastic bracelet Molly left on the table, waiting for Viktor to come back from wherever he’s gone. 

Finally, Viktor shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. 

“If we win the Cup, then there is no reason for me to stay in Bulgaria.”

Percy drops the bracelet. 

“Not your family?”

Viktor shrugs. “Sashka and Damyan will be going to school, and Emiliya isn’t needing me so much.” His lips turn up at the corners, a wistful look in his eye. “She pretends, but she has her own life. There will be nothing keeping me there.”

He considers his next words before speaking, looking intently at Percy. 

“Even if we...if we do not win...it will not make a difference. If you are wanting me to, I would live in England.”

“Of course I want you to!” Percy says breathlessly. “But are you...are you quite sure you wouldn’t mind?”

Viktor shakes his head, and under the dim lights, Percy can just see that his eyes are shining. 

“Of course not. This is what I want.” 

The resulting kiss is interrupted by Harry saying, “oh!”

“Harry!” Viktor and Percy say at the same time. 

“Did I forget to pack something?” Percy asks. 

Harry, who is red about the ears, explains that Molly was wanting her Harpies blanket.

“I told her I’d come and fetch it…” he says to Percy, who is already halfway to Molly’s bed. 

“I had better go,” Viktor says as Percy hands off the blanket to Harry. He gives Percy a quick kiss, squeezes his hand, and follows Harry out of the tent. 

Percy waits for a moment before stepping out in the night, breathing in the cool, bracing air. The worry of what to ask and how to ask it has vanished. Viktor wants to live with him. He wants to live with his children. 

In the distance, he hears a camera flash, some scattered arguing. It dies down before any of the Weasleys can do more than look at each other, but Percy can guess what’s just happened. 

“Well, now one of us  _ has _ to snog Viktor tomorrow,” George says from his seat next to Charlie, raising his wine glass to Percy. 


	7. Chapter 7

Viktor rubs the back of his head, seeing stars. A few yards away, Brazilian Beater Santos is appealing to the referee, insisting that he hadn’t  _ meant _ to hit Viktor upside the head with his bat. 

“The sun!” he keeps saying, gesturing wildly at the sky. “I could not see!” 

Purposeful or not, game play has stopped, and the crowd is muttering restlessly. Viktor closes his eyes, shrugging off whoever’s hand is clapping his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, leaning his head down on the handle of his broom. “I’m fine to play, tell them I’m fine…” 

Vassileva calls for the mediwizards, and the referee ushers him off the field and back into the players’ box. 

“I am ready to play,” he insists to a handful of dispassionate mediwizards, holding his sleeve up against his bleeding nose. “It is nothing…this is the World Cup Final, until they are carrying out both of my hands in a basket, I will play…”

He looks at Levski imploringly. 

“Tell them!” 

Levski nods grimly, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ll play, of course you’ll play...but let them take their time on the penalty check. It’ll throw Brazil off. Give you time to recover.” 

Viktor swallows his impatience and waits for what seems like an eternity. Finally, the call comes in: no penalty will be awarded. The Bulgarians cry out against the call, but Viktor is already half on his broom. The referee looks at him questioningly, and he flies onto the field in response. The crowd roars, and the referee gives the signal for play to resume. 

The ringing in Viktor’s ears has hardly ceased before he seeks Brazilian Seeker Silva incline his head sharply upwards, the handle of his broom swiftly following. Viktor sees it—the Snitch, glittering against the sun. They’re off, shooting higher and higher into the sky as Snitch dodges them both, the sun acting as a worthy ally. 

There will be no sleight of hand against Silva—each time the Snitch flits out of sight, he is the first to notice it, and Viktor knows that his only hope of winning is to out-fly Silva. 

The play below has fragmented and lost its momentum, as the other players try desperately not to get in the way of their respective Seekers. Viktor is tracking Silva across the stadium, trying to gain every inch he can. 

It’s working, and as he closes in on Silva, he turns his attention to the Snitch mere yards in front of them. He shifts his mental circle, pushes Silva out of his mind’s eye, and by the next turn, he’s closer to the Snitch than ever before. The next dive, it’s a matter of feet. One more push, one more run, and he can reach out a hand and take it…

This time, the entire stadium is watching as Viktor’s fingers close around the Snitch, and the roar of the crowd is instantaneous. Viktor kisses the Snitch before throwing his hand in the air. The second the game is called, the moment his teammates begin rushing towards him, Viktor lets the Snitch slip away as he’s forced to grip his broomstick with both hands. He feels suddenly unsteady. The adrenaline must have stopped dulling the pain in his head, and now he’ll pay the price...

But as Silva—who reaches him before any of the Bulgarians do—embraces him, Viktor comes into an awareness of his own body. Nothing hurts—not even his head—nor is he dizzy or disoriented...he’s shaking, wracked with sobs. There are tears on his face as he claps Silva on the back, trying and failing twice to congratulate him on a well-played match. 

The whole world could be shouting his name, and it couldn’t be any louder than it is right now. Viktor thinks he grabs a hold of every teammate and congratulates, but he can’t be sure. 

It would hardly matter. Bulgaria has won. 

Emiliya stands at the end of the player’s box, but this time she refuses to let him get off his broom. Tears are streaming down her face as she presses his hand in hers.

“They’d be so proud,” she tells him, and Viktor nods, blinking back still more tears. 

He turns and gives the crowd a proper look for the first time. He hasn’t—he thinks—ever seen a crowd with such clarity as he sees this one. All this time, the game has mattered to him most of all, and if people wanted to watch, they were free to do so. Viktor had never paid them much mind. You couldn’t, if you wanted to win. 

Now, it’s as if every person who cheers shares in the victory, multiplying the Bulgarian’s joy and excitement until it becomes an all-consuming, infinitely potent force.

What would Quidditch be without them? Viktor waves at the stands, and they scream all the louder. 

They wouldn’t mind, Viktor thinks, if he shows them a little more of who he is. After all, he won’t be catching many more Snitches…

Box 2 is crackling with excitement—even Harry’s son, Al, decked out in Brazilian green, is jumping up and down as Viktor approaches. Somehow, he finds room to land, as Weasleys and Potters scatter. 

“My head is fine,” he says as Percy rushes forward, anticipating the foremost question in Percy’s wide eyes. But Percy’s distracted nod doesn’t stop him from grabbing Viktor’s temples in his hands and running his fingers along the back of Viktor’s skull, as if they have healing powers hitherto unknown to mediwizards and witches. 

Perhaps they do, Viktor thinks as he catches Percy’s lips in his own, wrapping his arms around him. Someone—probably George—wolf whistles, and he can feel Percy smiling as he kisses Viktor back. The crowd’s cheers grow still louder, and the press box has turned into a circus. 

Viktor laughs as cameras flash and quills begin to scribble in the air. They can write what they wish. There is nothing left for Viktor to do but go home. 


End file.
